


Dark Waters: Venice

by MurderInk



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Thieves, Carnival, Comedy, Dark, Fantasy, Gay, Irony, M/M, Temptation, USUK - Freeform, Venezia | Venice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:39:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurderInk/pseuds/MurderInk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My name is Arthur Kirkland and I am a thief. Well more or less. How I became one is a long tale, but this is not how this story starts. No. It starts when I was already an expert at stealing and deceiving. It starts with a rather simple mission, the kind of mission I usually do, but one more glance at my target and things changed entirely. Although I had no idea back then...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Olive von Reingruben](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Olive+von+Reingruben).



The word before

~ Open the book and dance along the pages ~

_Dear Diary,_

_My name is Arthur Kirkland and I am a thief. Well more or less. How I became one is a long tale, but this is not how this story starts. No. It starts when I was already an expert at stealing and deceiving. It starts with a rather simple mission, the kind of mission I usually do, but one more glance at my target and things changed entirely. Although I had no idea back then._

Lime green eyes glance out through the window at the city below him. It was September 3rd and the summer started to fade away slowly. Others may have not observed, but the British man had a sharp eye. The sun was shining in a warmer colour, but its intensity decreased, now only caressing his fair skin. Maybe this is Summer's way of saying farewell. He thought a bit nostalgic. Ah, nonsense. His lips curled in a small smile as he sighed.

His flat wasn't too spacious. No. Wait. It would have been spacious, if he bothered to throw away some of his old stuff, but each time he said he would do it, he ended up curling in ball with them, crying over the old times. So his flat was stuffy. He wasn't the type who would clean everything like an obsessive housewife. He got over that long ago.

It was already 8 PM and the sun started to set past the city. Arthur lived at the 25th floor and his view was interesting. He didn't like big cities. They were noisy, weird and lousy. Just like him. But he put up with it and moved in America. To find him.

_So I will tell you my story, without expecting you to understand my actions, my desires nor my fears. I'm not telling you this story because you wanted me to nor because I am trying to warn you. My reasons are more selfish, if you want to call them that. I am writing this story down just to let the time pass until he comes back home. Until the day I find him back._

Arthur puffed disgruntled.

_If anyone finds this dairy by mistake over the years, after I am no longer here and wants to contact me, they will eventually find me. That is if they are smart enough to read through the lines and understand that there's nothing in this world that should be judged by the covers._

My story starts on February 2th, 2013. Venice, Italy. This is the day and the place that changed my life entirely, yet again.


	2. Grey Skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur, Francis and Antonio depart from Treviso ready for business.

_"Hear my heart beat, it's the only proof that I have one." -I.L._  


____________________

**Treviso, Province of Treviso, Italy**

**Saturday, February 2nd, 2013**

With his fingers joined at the tips placed in front of his asymmetrical soft pink lips, he keeps pacing up and down the small room. Blonde eyebrows furrowed and eyes squinted at the bare shrivelled walls while he keeps sinking us in an uncomfortable silence. To my utter displeasure, he has been doing this for the past twenty-something minutes and he doesn't seem too close to stopping it- his occasional sighs and grunts could be sign, for instance. The room is really small- the single bed can barely fit in the room with the thin wooden closet and the small table in the corner of the room- and it makes it fifty different kinds of hard to ignore his nervous behaviour.

I inhale deeply and cast my eyes outside at the bleak grey scenery in front of me: the sky is plagued by dense fuscous clouds, no crack of blue in this area. Nearby, there is another old building that looks like it hasn't been visited for ages. The air is damp, itching my nostrils and somewhat burning my throat down to my lungs. I hate this place.

"I need your full attention on this one, Kirkland," he says in the end stopping his nervous pacing to look me fully in the eye, his index resting on his lower lip. I scoff from my dark wooden chair- when doesn't he need my full attention on anything? "I mean it. I know you're good at what you do, I'll give you that, but I don't need you to get cocky and screw this up. Boss is looking forward to having a nice victory, so you better not let him down," he warns, his finger up in the air. As if I don't know that. Truth is, I am far from impressed by his little speech and dramatical act. He always overreacts before a mission.

I never fail and I certainly won't start now.

"So...what's the plan?" with a careful tone, I decide to pull him out of his misery- watching him be all troubled and nervous is fun, but it gets boring in the end.

As expected, a little smirk colours his features before giving me the answer. "I thought you'd never ask..." I roll my eyes- I truly can't stand this man.

Let's see...what would a normal person do, if they were near Venice during a big festival? Definitely not stand in an abandoned old house, that smells like wet rats, wearing a long dress and a wig. Funnily enough, that's exactly what I am doing. Talk about unusual.

"So let me ask again...boss wants me to seduce the son of a rich bastard who is also a piece of shit while wearing a dress and batting my eyelashes like some goddamn cheap whore?" I ask while his long finger smear fair foundation on my cheeks. Without hesitation, he nods. "Kinky son of a bitch!" I incredulously mutter under my breath, which earns me a dirty look from the bastard in front of me.

"That foul mouth of yours is ruining my efforts to turn you into a fine innocent young lady!" he whines. His big blue eyes and soft-looking shoulder-length locks that are framing his pale ivory complexion would lead one to think he is an innocent, peaceful, charming, loving flower when in reality he is just the epitome of the saying: looks can be deceiving.

"I wonder why, really, I wonder why," I reply dryly trying not to roll my eyes. He is a man of no boundaries, no manners, but he is also my co-worker and apparently that's a good enough reason as to not kill him. Whatever.

Knowing me so well, he doesn't say anything in return. But that doesn't mean that he is not giving me one of his 'you-kicked-my-puppy' looks before he starts applying crimson red lipstick on my dry, chapped lip, probably mentally judging me for my lack of self care- just like he usually does, only more verbally.

Francis Bonnefoy is the name of one of the most annoying men I have ever had the displeasure of meeting. While his looks are pleasing to the eye, his flamboyant whiny and almighty attitude is what causes me a peculiar urge to plant my fist in his face. 

He is a man of French lineage and has been born and raised in France from what I heard- his thick French accent doesn't help either. Aside from being my make-up artist on occasion, he is a 'fashion bird' as he puts it, but I am more inclined to view him as a dressed up monkey, always creating a new dress or a another fancy shirt for our little organisation, if you want to call it that.

"I'm done," he casually announces handing me a pocket mirror- I don't want to know why he carries one around, he just always does and no one ever questions it. 

And truth is, as much as I dislike the man, I have to admit that he is pretty good at what he does.

The person in the mirror has plump red lips and porcelain flawless skin, while the cheeks hold a slight tint of healthy pink. With my dark circles gone and my sick pallor covered, I actually look a few years younger than I am in reality and by far more feminine- the worries of yesterday have been almost completely erased from my face. The only thing that betrays my age is my forest green eyes that look just too tired for their own good.

On another note, the fiery red wig that falls on my forehead, covering it, frames my face just well, pinpointing my somewhat sharp cheekbones. To my displeasure, despite being a man in his somewhat late twenties, I have rather feminine features. A ruby floor-long dress covers most of my body and there is no cleavage to expose my non-existent breasts, while my feet are held captive by a pair of low heeled shoes.

Unfortunately for me, this is not the first time I am found in this predicament.

"I'm good, aren't I?" he pulls me out of my inner self-admiring time only to receive a rather obvious irritated scowl from me. I don't answer and I am not willing to praise him- it would only inflate his ego and God knows that the world doesn't need this.

"Whatever makes you sleep at night," I say in response, because knowing him he would nag me until I said something- anything.  
Why not give him a slice of bitter acid then? He grimaces at me and shakes his head, mumbling incoherent things in his golden stubble.

"Well, get up, Toni's waiting for us downstairs," he says before storming out of the room, finally leaving me alone if only for a bit.

A few minutes later, I am found in the backseat of a small black-windowed car while smelling of vanilla and mint. Both Francis and Antonio have tried to shove a full-girly perfume on me, but I had other plans. Turns out that there must be some God out there, because I am not running around smelling like a delicate flower which, hell, I am not.

"I'm telling you you won't be able to win that guy's heart if you keep being all 'macho' girl. No man likes a manly scary girl," Francis whines from the front seat and I grimace showing him the happy finger from the back seat, which only earns me dirty looks from Antonio, who should be paying attention to the road, and Francis, who should mind his own business.

"And I'm telling you to mind your own business and not get us killed before we even get there!" I snap glaring at Antonio, which only causes him to chuckle cockily in the front seat.

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, commonly known as Fucker #2, is a man of twenty-something, of Spanish parentage, who has a bad habit of annoying the living hell out of me too. Tan complexion, dark shoulder-length curly hair and dark forest green eyes, along with a musky fragrance and black clothes- he gives off the bad-boy vibe when in reality he is just an annoying soft-hearted brat. He has an intense passion for tomatoes and that is enough of a reason to stay as far as possible from him- the words intense passion don't even convey all the mysterious dark process of professing his love to the fruit. Also, he is another co-worker, so, apparently, I am not allowed to kill him either. What a shame!

"No wonder he's still single," Francis fakely mutters to Antonio, who nods and flashes a stupid all-mighty grin. 

I glare at them again, but say nothing- I am not in the mood for arguing over nonsense and the rest of the drive sinks in silence.

The streets snake through the city, narrow paths between tall, colourful buildings. The sky remains grey for the entire duration of the trip. Ten minutes into our seemingly normal journey, if overlooking the fact that I, Arthur Kirkland, am wearing a dress while accompanied by two idiots is possible, and the city of Treviso is slowly left behind. 

Treviso is a quiet place with few tourists, as they all prefer Venice in its place. A shame, actually. The city is relatively peaceful and the people are mostly polite. There's a grand canal and many streets that seem taken out of tales of old dusty times. The fruity scent of wine was often carried over the tall, now barren, trees and old buildings, during my stay there. The invigorating fragrance of roasted coffee beans in the morning has been my alarm for over a week already. 

Contrary to what you must be thinking, I did not stay for more than a week in a shabby, damp, cramped with rats place. We used the old building to get me disguised. The building is old and located in a deserted area, save for overly drunk or drugged people. They weren't a threat. 

Boss has many connections in equally many places. He managed to get us all different places to stay. I was the one insisting on staying all in separate places. This way, no one would be able to tie us together.

As final destination, we have Venice waiting with uncountable canals, masks and people from all over the world, all seeking one thing or another. What is special about this location apart from the rich culture and marvelous view? 

It's the perfect place for commiting sins or even better, crimes. Personally, I think the word 'sin' doesn't mean much. 

"I can feel the dark chills making a nest of my backbone already with all that glaring, mon chere!" As usual, his theatrics are not forgotten. 

I roll my eyes in disdain and hope he would cease being so dramatic all the time. "That is, if you had a backbone. But seeing as you don't, I don't see the problem, whether I glare at you or not." 

"Always so cold. And one would think after so many years of marriage, you'd come to love moi!" 

If I could see myself now, I would probably have a quite scandalized expression which would highly suggest I felt a strong, sudden urge to strangle a certain Frenchman. But I clear my throat and make myself comfortable in the back. 

"As if anyone would marry you with a face like that!" I puff and even to myself I sound a tad bit proud. "I have better tastes than that." 

The two of them exchange glances, but say nothing. There is no need for them to say anything. Among the Employees, with emphasis on the, there is a popular belief that I cannot date proper human beings, as they so kindly state. 

To be frank, I don't really care. I have stopped trying to actually date. One night stands are more than sufficient. Whenever I feel like it, I know whom to call or where to seek relief. 

It's a wonder so few people do it. Just thinking about being tied to one person is terrifying. I am my own. That's it. I do not need to let any part of myself depend on someone, who might or not, be there for me the next day. I am complete as I am and I will continue on advancing in life on my own, because of myself and no one else. 

"Have you thought what mask you'll wear?" This time, the sun-kissed man asks. 

For once, I get asked the right questions and I can't help but curl my lips in a small grin. "I did a bit of research this week, but I'd like to see what boss has got for me. As far as I know, he knows a skilled mask maker in Venice." 

There's uneasiness in Antonio's eyes. He bites his lower lip for a second, before he regains his careless expression. Oh, he's got a secret! Interesting. 

"Well then, we'll pay that person's a visit."

"What about dancing? Any good?" Bonnefoy demands and I instantly grimace.

"Don't be a fool. If there's anyone who can actually dance in here, that's me!" 

The two of them roll their eyes. "Yes, right, you're a little ballerina. I forgot, lo siento. I am talking about the non-leading part of the deal. Can you do that?" 

A develish grin spreads ear to ear on my face. Oh, dear. "And, oh, can I dance! Fret not, idiots, I've got this covered. That rich bastard will be under my thumb in no time, this I promise!" 

I think I've heard Francis mumble something like "he's lost his marbles, poor child," but I do not pay him any of my attention. He's not worth it. 

So I close my eyes and scheme. This mission might be easy, but it is also of high importance. One must be careful. 

"We're almost there!" Antonio announces after a while. Opening my eyes, I can, indeed, see the famous city profiling in front of us. 

"But isn't the parking expensive? " I ask.

I recently read in a guidebook that parking in Venice costs quite a fortune. I wonder if I was wrong.

"When did that stop us?" Francis replies. "Boss said we have to park it in Venice. He knows people anyway." 

Of course he does. Why am I even surprised anymore? Pfft. "Did he also mention why?" I enquire.

I've never liked being kept in the dark. Francis shakes his head. Unfortunately, boss rarely told any of us about his reasons.

"Does he ever?" I scoff. This is going to be tiresome. 

To be continued...

A.N. Reader? Oh, hello there! I am not dead. Yet, at least. It took me ages to update this. To be frank, I sort of have an obsession with Venice and I don't know why. I have planning this story in my head for years already and it sounds great (in my head). But it took me a lot of rewriting and editing and pausing to be at least a bit pleased with it. I want to get Art's character right. 

Anyway, I am back and I'll try to write more often. 

Cheers

Eris


End file.
